


Not the First, Not the Last

by Loni



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loni/pseuds/Loni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sniper gets a night visitor to cure his loneliness, but is his attachment to the Scout worth it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the First, Not the Last

It couldn’t be this way. It _shouldn’t_ be this way.

But, it is this way. Someone sent a devil to me in the disguise of an angel with bright blue eyes and a crooked smile. He was too irresistible, the greatest of all sins tucked away in a toned body. And, he came for me and me alone.

At least, that’s what I like to tell myself. I know I am not the first, nor will I be the last in his line of bedded lovers.

He took advantage of my loneliness, and I gave in too easily to care. His touch felt years more experienced than his own body appeared and he knew how to press all the right buttons to garnish a reaction out of me. Or, was it my own naivety that caused everything to feel so well-planned? Perhaps it was a mixture of the both? Either way, the boy found me at my most vulnerable and lit my body on fire as if the very sun had collapsed on me.

Yes, a boy made love to a man—a withering, poor excuse for a man—and I enjoyed every moment of it. I had never been with another male in all my years, but his touch and his kisses were so dainty, so delicate, so _controlled_ , that I was prone to his lusty stare and my own desires easily threw away any semblance of common sense I might have previously owned.

It began during dusk as I sat in my camper, nursing the soreness from my neck after a long day’s work. Normally, I hide out and take my enemy by surprise, but today, one came for me and we danced a battle of death—and I was the victor. But, not without taking a few scrapes of my own. Out of nowhere, there was a knock at my door, and there he stood, the young boy from Boston, clad in his dirtied uniform with something of a wry smile about his face. Normally, I would have slammed the door in his face and returned to my solitude—but not tonight. There was something about tonight that made me lose my inhibitions and allow him to enter my domain. He looked about as if interested in my filthy little abode, but I could tell he was not here for casual conversation. What he was there for in reality, I could not say, but one does not enter another man’s home without the need for something, especially at night. That much, I can be sure of.

“Wot d’ya want?” I plainly ask him, and the boy would only gaze at me with a slightly-tilted head, his mouth still curled into a smile and his eyes half-lidded. I don’t know how I was capable of remembering such small details, but that’s when he moved closer to me in a painstakingly-slow motion as if time itself had ceased to exist between the moment he moved and the moment he had me lying in my own bed, his legs straddling my sides and his hands to either side of my head.

I take offense, of course. What was the boy thinking? He had to be more than half my age, at the very least. This was entirely unacceptable behavior! I’m about to voice my complaints, but his finger falls upon my lips and my entire body ceases to function as if that one digit weighed a thousand pounds—that, or the boy held some kind of hoodoo over me with his actions. Either way, it’s intoxicating, and I’m reduced to a lame excuse for a human beneath his touch. And, touch is the very thing he began to do next as fingers caressed the skin beneath my facial stubble. It had to feel akin to cheese being grated at the rough patches for him, but his actions never cease, and my eyes are closing and my head moves into the touch without my say. He strokes my oily hair, and I can’t help but released a pitiful moan in acknowledgement. He chuckles, and I don’t just hear it; I feel it as his hot breath goes against my ear.

“Someone’s been lonely, huh?” he asks, and my eyes open and stare into his with a gaze that could only signify the painful truth. Yes, I have been lonely—been lonely ever since I first signed up for this godforsaken hell of being a mercenary-for-hire. Spending years perfecting my trade has left little to be desired in terms of physical attractiveness. I doubt any woman in her right mind would give me the time of day even if I paid for her company. As this goes through my mind, the boy seems to be reading my thoughts as if they were hovering in a cloud above my head. His face softens only slightly and he looms over me, placing his lips at my forehead with such care, I barely register the act as a kiss until he withdraws and I feel the slight chill of the saliva left behind.

I try to argue once more, but he shushed me with the lightest of whispers. “I can fix that. Leave everything ta me.” Even if I wanted to yell out in protest, I can’t as I’m suddenly very dumbfounded at the lips engulfing my own. My body tenses at the touch; it should not be happening, I remind myself, but I make no effort to push the boy away. Rather, my eyes close again and I tilt my head into the kiss. He feels no different than a woman in his tenderness, and I try to think of him as such, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I know better. And, the scary part? I’m actually _enjoying_ the knowledge, and it’s becoming noticeable in my lower regions.

The boy can sense this—it’d be a damn miracle if he didn’t—and another laugh escapes into our kiss. He releases my mouth despite my protests and slides back, purposely placing his weight upon my crotch, and I give a groan to his delight.

“Ah, yeah, ya have been lonely,” he chuckles almost in a demeaning manner and I can’t help but to turn red in the cheeks at this painful reminder. He’s sympathetic to my plight, however, and pulls my upper half towards him as he wraps his arms about my neck and places his hands into my hair. How I manage to stay a solid form and not melt into his chest is anyone’s guess, but I find myself easily returning the gestures as my own hands are grasping into the fabric of his shirt at his lower back. I suppose, in my excitement, I tug the cloth to the point of pulling it from his pants, and it’s now a wrinkly mess in my fingers.

He’s pleased; I can tell by the soft hum passed between our mouths, so the boy begins testing my bravery by lapping at my lips, encouraging my tongue to fight back. With no reason in my head telling me otherwise, I enthusiastically comply, darting my tongue against his and even going so far as to follow it into his mouth where I taste the bittersweet flavor of chocolate-infused saliva. His head tilting gives me permission to continue my exploration against his tongue and teeth, and it pains me when I start pondering how many other tongues have been doing exactly as I do now. However, this is not the time for such negative thoughts; for now, the devil’s angel is mine and mine alone.

The boy’s shirt is a nuisance suddenly, and I tug and pull at the material until he finally releases his grip on my neck and allows me to remove it altogether. My face must be red as blood as I gaze upon his gorgeous torso, because it’s burning to the point of tingling and I could easily fry an egg upon each cheek. For a mercenary, he takes damn good care of himself, as his body is devoid of any scars or wounds not like my own. It’s then his youth is revealed in the lack of aged skin, blemishes, or even body hair—whether the youth purposely shaves or just doesn’t produce them, I don’t care, especially at this point in time where he’s in my lap and eager to please _me_.

And, damnit, I’m _pleased_.

I am so pleased with this that I decide to take things into my own hands in a literal manner. His soft face is cupped by my own calloused hands, and his mouth is once again mine for the taking, but we’ve come to the mutual agreement that we both require more touch, more taste, more, more, _more_. The boy withdraws to trail his tongue against my neck, and I can’t help but growl and arch into him, especially once he begins nibbling on tender flesh above my collarbone. He’s sucking and licking, damn desperate to leave his mark upon me, and I’m allowing it as my hands bravely dip into the back of his pants, fingers digging into and massaging the soft, plump flesh I find. I still want more and the belt at his waist is denying me such, but our bodies are pressed together and I can’t quite get to the buckle.

In all my efforts, I lose patience and pick the boy up and dump him onto the bed and crawl atop to straddle his legs before he has time to react; however, that smirk is still present upon his face and he takes to unbuttoning my shirt as I fumble with his trousers. Of course, he is not going to make this easy for me since he’s started rubbing a cupped hand against my groin and I nearly topple onto his body altogether. How I manage to continue my duty of handling the cursed buckle while he sends every nerve in my body into a blaze, I’ll never know, but I’m not about to give up here—not while the boy is so damned determined to cure my loneliness and my own inhibitions slowly dying for the sake of touch. I finally can’t take the torture any longer, making it painfully obvious as I grab his wrist and yank his hand above his head with a low growl; he finds it funny, but I’m not about to let that cheeky grin ruin my moment. And, within a few seconds, my face is twisting into a victorious smile as the buckle finally gives way and I toss it back to rip at the button separating me from holy ecstasy.

Suddenly, the youth is pushing me back. Confused, I rise to my feet and he follows me, but assures me in the form of a kiss that he’s not about to go anywhere. Rather, it is my own shirt that is pulled down onto my arms, and I move to allow the cloth to fall off me entirely, and he’s tugging at my undershirt quicker than I can raise my own arms to allow him to pull it from me. And, again, I’m a blushing mess at the site of my own battle-worn, aged body, but the boy is quick to work his magic against the flesh of my chest and permits my continuing effort to unbutton his trousers and allow them to fall to his ankles; suddenly, his own enjoyment is very noticeable and it causes a spark behind my head as I’m curiously intoxicated by the sight of his arousal pressing against his underwear and the pressure of it against my own, which is still painfully bound behind my own pants. The boy seems to be very experienced at reading my thoughts—or at least the knowledge of previous lovers has granted him this ability—and he takes to removing my own belt in one quick swipe. I admit, I am impressed, but the truth of the matter is that it’s a shame he’s so good at this with his experiences, and I’m shaking like a leaf clinging to its branch in the Autumn weather from my lack of knowledge, especially in the department of same-sex love-making.

We have come this far, but what next? I am completely left baffled and nervous and extremely embarrassed at my inability to continue our passionate dance, but the boy is well experienced in his ways, and very easily bends to his knees and taunts me at the hem of my pants with trickling fingers. In my befuddlement, I can only reach for his head and thumb through his sleek hair as I bite my lip hesitantly. My pants are rendered child’s play and made to fall at my ankles and before I have but a moment to suck air into my lungs deeply as the warmth of his tongue is now swirling at the tip of my arousal.

My knees buckle, and I nearly fall over at the foreign touch, but his hands act as support as they clench into my hip and leg. My own fingers attempt to grasp his hair, but, short as it is, I can only make fists atop his skull, which is a good thing as I could have easily ripped his scalp bald otherwise. Something that can only be registered as animalistic escapes my lips—I still cannot describe it even now—and the younger man merely chuckles as if testing me.

I give in too easily, but I swallow any pride I had remaining in an effort to keep the boy from stopping in his ministrations. “God, don’t—“

“I said I wasn’t goin’ anywhere, remember?” His voice oozes with a hint of seduction—not that the boy has to even try anymore at this point, but it is still a very welcome act—and I’m left to grit my teeth as I allow my head to fall to my shoulder and I dared to look into the icy blue eyes staring back into my own. His smile is like velvet, and his touch the very same as he takes my entire length into his mouth in one slick movement.

Did I yowl like a wounded animal? Whatever I did, I don’t give much of a shit at this point; I’m more concerned with standing upright as my hands move to the boy’s shoulders and hang on for all dear life as he immediately begins to bob onto my member with the speed of the setting sun on a hot summer’s day. It’s painful, but damn, does it feel nice to have something other than my own hand there, and those eyes continue to bore into my very being with intense concentration. I dare to say I could see the corners of his mouth curling as he tried to smile against me, but he can make whatever expression he damn well chooses if it meant he continued to please me in such a manner, even if painstakingly slow.

However, much to my dismay, the boy stops altogether, and I release the most pitiful whimper of protest even though he grabs my arm and leads me to my bed, falling into it before me. That mischievous grin is back, and be bends his legs to remove the last of his clothing and then brings his feet to rest on the floor and allows me to stare in awe and longing at his ridiculously-gorgeous form as he offered himself to me. It takes no spoken word from his mouth for me to drop to the floor between his legs, and my hands are brave enough to grope and molest every bit of flesh I can reach. I’m not the most gentle of lovers in my inexperience, but his face appears pleased with my curiosity, and his hands rest behind his head as he watches me inspect his entire being under the weathered flesh of my fingertips. How I wish they were not so calloused so I could thoroughly appreciate the soft, yet firm skin and not fear leaving any scrapes in my wake!

“What, ya waitin’ for a written invitation?” His voice is both playful and assertive, and my cheeks flush again as I realize the undertones to his words; however, I am once again dumbfounded as to how exactly I am to continue down this road of pleasure with someone of the same gender. And, again, the boy reads my mind and his feet rise to rest along the edge of my bed on either side of me, and his entire being is fully exposed and open to me. And, even though I’m having second thoughts about morals, my body is reacting to the sight in the most pleasing of ways; still, I linger, pondering the wrongness of the situation.

At least, until a moan escapes the boy’s throat and my eyes dart to his backside, where he has already began preparing himself without my assistance with wet fingers as his other hand is stroking his own arousal. He’s enjoying himself and I am enjoying him, though I admit the sight comes off as a shock, especially when our eyes lock once more and he watches me watching him. My underwear cannot disappear fast enough, and I struggle to come to my feet and remove the offending cloth so now I am as stark-naked and vulnerable as the boy pleasuring himself for himself and for me.

But, mostly for me.

No, _all_ for me.

The angelic demon bathed in shimmering shades of peach is mine for tonight and no one else’s. And, I am ready to claim him as my own. I may be a haggard excuse for a man, but I am still a kind one; I’m kind enough to wet my own throbbing member with saliva, stroking it gently despite not needing any type of touch to cause it to grow beneath my touch as the youth’s actions unto himself are enough to drive me over the edge.

He removes his fingers, using them to motion me over. He is ready. I am ready. Tonight, the heavens and hells merge together as I press myself into him with just enough force to garnish a small growl from the boy. Then, I pause and I look to those sky-filled eyes once more, and they are reflecting my own lusty gaze. I am unaccustomed to such a feeling engulfing my arousal, but despite the years of neglect, I am still keen on my human nature, and casually begin thrusting into the smaller body in a slow and excruciatingly-slow rhythm. I growl into the boy’s neck as his nails dig into my shoulder blades, no doubt leaving crescent-shaped indentions along the way. This only excites me further, and my pace quickens—and my grip deepens onto his hips, no doubt causing bruises beneath my fingers—especially now that the boy’s sly grin has faded into a gaping mouth emitting the most delicious of sexual melodies and his head falls back onto the bed. He’s now begging, pleading, _demanding more_ , and I comply with fervor to the point of shaking the camper on its tires. A free hand snakes between us as the younger man begins pumping at his member in-key to my own thrusting.

By now, we’re both an intertwined mess of sweat and skin and incoherent noises and heavy panting on tangled sheets. He’s crying for more, his back arching as our chests are melded together and our rib cages scrape against one another. Our pace quickens and I slam a hand into the bed beside the boy’s head so as to not fall over altogether—though I find it difficult to keep my pace in a pattern now that he’s writhing beneath me. But, even in my lack of experience over the years, I know he’s fast approaching his climax as his entire body tenses and my shaft is squeezed harshly.

Then, a mangled yell, and he erupts between the two of us, his hot seed burning into my stomach and his pants heating my ear. It is too much for a worthless old man such as me to bear, and I release inside of him with a few deep thrusts, my own throat emitting a garbled grunt before falling into the boy. My head is spinning, my heart is pounding, and he’s grinning that cheeky grin of his as if it were his default expression.

I don’t know what to say at this point. Was there anything that needed being said? Should I apologize? Should I show my gratitude? Or, better yet, will I be granted his companionship for the rest of the night? I have made the young Scout mine tonight, and it pains me to think that he could easily walk away and find someone else to get his pleasure from. The feeling of dread swells in my chest and I hesitantly remove myself from within him and sit on the edge of the bed with my hands tucked between my knees.

He is still wise beyond his years with experience and ability to read my thoughts and casually rises to lean into my back and drape his arms about my shoulders and legs wrapped around my waist, and I’m calmed with the nuzzling of his nose into my sweat-laced hair.

“You’ll stay? With _me_?” I ask as calmly as I can muster despite the uneasy shake of desperation in my voice.

“For the night, yeah,” he whispers into my ear before moving to relax into my bed and drift into a slumber devoid of conscience. Tomorrow, he will be gone, perhaps to the next thrill, and I will return to being the withered hunter with a broken and lonely heart.

It is a bittersweet moment that lasts nearly the entire night as I lie next to the sleeping form of the demon in angel’s garb, gently moving wayward hair from his sweaty forehead. I will fight off the sweet void of unconsciousness for as long as I can, all the while remembering that, despite the love I put into this one night with him, I will never have that love returned.

I was not the first, and I am not to be the last.


End file.
